Stuck With You: A Spider-ManPeter Parker Fanfiction
by fallingpages
Summary: Izzy de Bracko might be falling in love with her best friend, Peter Parker. But she can't think about a relationship with him-it wouldn't work out. She can't lose him. Not after everything they've been through. Peter Parker might be falling in love with his best friend, Izzy de Bracko. He's scared to think about a relationship-he's already lost so many. He can't lose her, too.
1. 1 Stuck With You

_Izzy's POV_

"Izzy, thanks for sticking with me this whole time."

I look up at Peter sitting across from me, his eyes still and serious, so different from their usual playfulness. We haven't talked aloud in nearly an hour, so buried in writing our papers. What prompted this sudden comment?

"Of course," I say, smiling. "You're my best friend. That's what I'm here for."

"Yeah, but you've stayed with me for…" he glances at his watch and runs his hands through his hair. "…Three extra hours."

"Six already?"

"Yeah."

I shrug. "It gave me more time to work on this."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "You stopped typing at 4. You've probably been on Tumblr since then."

"Nope, nope! I have no idea what you're talking about," I yell, slamming my computer screen down. "Just doing some photo editing."

"Mhmm. Okay." He leans back in his chair, grimacing at his computer. "Look, Iz, go home. You've been finished for a while. I'm nowhere close to being done."

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Peter."

"I'm serious. I've got nothing."

Scooting off my stool, I shift beside him. I bump his arm with mine as I scan his paper, my brain completely flying over all the official terms and long element names. There are a lot of bullet points and fragments, but not much else. "Geez, I thought this was for advanced chem, not a foreign language," I laugh.

He smiles, typing in a reference. "The details and the names aren't the hard part, it's just putting it all together in a coherent sentence that's giving me an issue. I know Mr. Anderson will understand it, but I want to use this paper for my internship as well and I don't know if that person will be an English person or science person." He sighs. "I can explain it verbally, but not in a written paper."

I climb on the stool beside him and fold my arms on the table, resting my head on them. "Then explain it to me verbally."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm not a chemistry nerd, but I think I can help translate."

"Thanks." He nudges me, then scrolls to the top of his paper. "So, I'm talking about the pros and cons of turning polyethylene into carbon fiber." He pulls up the study he's referencing, and I peruse it, my head already hurting. "So the polyethylene can be broken down to the atomic level, which the scientists can use to fine-tune the pore level, which can then be turned into carbon fiber to harvesting electricity and energy in car engines and the like. But all of that in MLA format, for some reason."

_I have no idea what he just said, but it was really hot, _I think, chewing my lip. _Talk nerdy to me. _"Okay, so I think you're talking at a base level, but don't be afraid to use some more fancy words. Mr. Anderson will be impressed, and so will the person at the internship. Maybe explain the process of breaking down the poly stuff in a little more detail to fill up more space on your page, then talk more about carbon fiber—a line about its history, its footprint on conservation. Then dive into the pros and cons of the electricity and car things. Break it down in paragraphs, like you're breaking down the atomic base. Like you're working out a chemistry equation."

At least, I hope that's right. I'm downright lost when it comes to chemistry, but he nods. "Yeah, that was a good analogy. Thanks."

"Hey, I scored highest on the analogy on my SAT prep exam," I say. "I don't know half of what you're saying, man, I just hope that's right because now if you fail this paper, I feel like that's on me."

"No, I won't fail, promise," he says. He stands up to hug me, his lips right against my ear. "Where would I be without you, Iz?"

I breathe him in, closing my eyes. There's no way my crush is going to fade away if he keeps smelling so good. "Still in advanced chem, still top of the class," I joke, pulling away.

He keeps me close to him, staring into my eyes. "You need to give yourself more credit. You act like you're not the star of the robotics team."

"It's whatever. I mean, making a robot doesn't quite carry the same weight as mixing together chemicals that are the difference between life and death."

He blinks, then scrunches his nose. "You're wrong, but okay."

"We're both important in our respective fields?"

"There we go. I could never assemble a Death Star without the instructions, and you take one look at the scattered pieces and make something even better."

I blush. He noticed that? "Thanks."

He beams, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

After a moment of just staring at each other, I turn away and pack my bag. "Hey, umm, I think we should go."

He settles back down on his stool, wiping his forehead with his palm. "You don't have to wait for me, Izzy. You've gotta be hungry. I don't wanna keep you."

"What will you do?"

"I've got the whole computer lab to myself!" he yells. "It'll give me more time to work! I can blast some Posty, bust some moves when I need a break, it's all good."

He starts to dance—ridiculously badly—and I laugh harder than I have in a long time. "Now this I _have _to see," I say, pulling out my phone. He bats it away, and I give up. "Okay, okay. Well, I'm not leaving you behind to go crazy in school after hours. Come to my house and eat dinner, okay?" When he hesitates, I shrug. "Mom's making tacos, and I think some change of scenery might help you write."

Peter perks up, grinning. "Yeah, thanks, I'll text May."

Once he does, we pack up and head outside.

It's chilly for May, even when it's daylight. Crickets chirp loudly, too loudly—they almost sound like my brother singing in the shower.

"Gosh, those crickets sound like Logan," Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

I laugh loudly, catching him by surprise. "That's exactly what I was thinking!"

He quirks his eyebrows, a playful smirk on his face. "By default, you know, they sound like you too."

"Do NOT!" I gasp, smacking him on the arm. "I think I'm a great singer! Remember my recital? I got a standing ovation!"

"You were wonderful, Iz."

I blush and look at him, remembering how good he looked that night in his bow tie and dress pants. I can even remember the smell of the flowers he gave me after my final bow. That night was the last time I had seen my dad, too, but Peter was the one who made it special. "Thanks again for coming to that," I say. "Having you there meant the world to me. I know how busy you are with the Stark internship."

Peter catches his breath quietly. "Of course I was there. I wouldn't have missed it." He clears his throat. "The internship is important to me, but not as important as family." He stops walking suddenly, reaching out to touch my shoulder. "And you're my family, Izzy. You and Logan and your parents…you're my family, one I never had. And I know I can be a pain in the butt sometimes, but you guys still take me in. You're having me over for dinner without a second thought!"

"My parents love you, Peter," I say as he holds up a low-hanging branch for me to walk under.

A bright grin spreads over his face, and with the fading orange sunset behind him, he has an aura of kindness and power radiating from him. His hands shoved in his pockets, the cuffs of his flannel rolled down to his wrists, his backpack slung over his shoulder…he looks like your friendly neighborhood kid. But then the dim sun casts a gold light around his head, wreathing his brown curls like a crown, and with his sharp jawline creating a shadow on his neck, he looks like a prince, someone powerful.

How can a 15-year-old boy look so ordinary and so powerful at the same time?

"Wait! Hold that pose!" I yell, yanking off my bookbag.

"What? What!" Peter asks, stiffening. "Is there a bug on me?"

"No, not that." I pull out my camera from its case. "It's a good photo op." The camera is warm from being in my bag all day, and I rub it as I wait for it to power on. I'm pretty sure my portfolio is 75 percent Peter Parker in various stages of life, but he's too good looking for me to not use as a model.

I switch the camera on and wait for it to adjust. I haven't done much photography since my parents' divorce, but I'm starting to ease back into it. Even though the camera is a reminder of their split, the hobby is a distraction.

"Can I move? My nose is starting to itch."

I nod, fiddling with the power button.

"Oh, good." Peter relaxes just as the camera adjusts. "Wait…ACHOO!"

_Snap! _I take the picture just as he sneezes, which gives me probably the best blackmail photo I could ever wish for. I cackle, my knees buckling.

"Wait what?" He sees me waving my camera around, then his face goes red. "You didn't."

"I did."

"Lemme see!"

"Nope!"

"Hand it over!" Peter lunges for me and I dodge, turning my back to him. My camera is tucked to my chest and I curl my body around it, the most precious thing I own. He reaches for it, grabbing my shoulders, and I knock his hands away, still laughing. "Hand it over, Izzy!"

"Not a chance, Parker!"

I try to take a step, but he grabs my waist and pulls me back to him, trapping me against his chest. Every muscle in my body slows down, and all I can hear is his laugh. I turn around to face him, the camera suddenly lumpy in my hands. His eyes are squinted from laughing, his smile wide and brilliant. Our close proximity must fly right over his head.

Until he opens his eyes. Then they go wide, his arms around me tighten, and his grin falls into a smile of realization. Realization as in, he's just now figured out that he's a boy, and I'm a girl, and we are _really _close.

Our chests heave from laughing, our faces only inches apart. Sure, we've been really close before, tackling each other in football, playing piano together, family movie nights squished on the couch. But this felt different. The air was charged, electric, like someone cut a power cord between us. An air of wanting and hope.

"Oh. Umm." We let go of each other and Peter steps back, rubbing the back of his neck. My camera's out of focus, and I curse as I wait for it to adjust. Once it does, I say, "Okay. Same pose."

He puts his hands in his pockets and raises his eyebrows as before.

That's when I see it.


	2. 2 Golden Hour

_Peter's POV_

"Perfect!" Izzy yells. Her fingers whirr over the camera buttons like tiny mechanical spiders scurrying on a tabletop. How can she remember which buttons to press and which degree to focus on without even thinking about it? How can she make bad pictures look so good? Witchcraft, probably, because her photoshop is more complicated than I can even imagine, and _I _am constantly making web fluid from scratch.

"Oh my gosh," she says, lifting her face from behind the camera. Her mouth is wide open as she peers behind me. I turn, my fingers reaching for my web latch…nothing.

There's nothing behind us except buildings and sun. My heart relaxes. For a moment I thought there was a real threat, which would have made sense, considering how quiet it has been lately. Either that or my spider-sense is suddenly out of commission.

"There it is," Izzy sighs, grinning at…the trees?

"What is it?"

"Golden hour!"

"What's golden hour?"

She lifts her camera and clicks. "Ah, yes, the signature Peter Parker expression of confusion," she says, looking down at the picture. "I could make a whole exhibit out of your confused faces."

She knows my confused faces?

"Anyway, golden hour is like prime time for photographers. It's the time of day an hour or two before dark, right when the sun is beginning to set." She snaps a few more pictures, but I have no idea what facial expression I'm making, but she keeps clicking away, so I guess I'm doing something right. "As the sun goes down, it gives off this yellow glow," she continues. "Smile."

I give her the cheesiest smile I can make.

Izzy rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. "A natural smile, Peter. Think of something you love."

Something I love? My mind hops to Aunt May, how she took me in and loves me like her own kid. Then there are my superhero abilities, and I love helping people as Spider-Man. Of course, I love hanging out with my friends, and then there's the first time I made my web fluid perfectly.

But something I love?

My eyes are drawn to Izzy de Bracko, most of her face hidden behind her precious camera. The sun bounces off her blonde hair, like she's wearing a gold tiara. The sun reflects the curve of her shoulder and makes her eyes look like oceans. Golden hour was made for her.

"I think that was the best smile yet!" she says, taking me out of my trance. "What did you think about?"

I blush. "Um. Tacos."

"Of course you were," she says. "Why would I think anything else?"

"Do you really think a teenage boy's mind is made up of anything other than food and Fortnite?"

"Touché."

By now we've reached her house, and the sun has almost set. Izzy takes her MET lanyard from her back pocket and sticks the key in the door. "Man, I'm so glad we caught golden hour," she says, looking at the sunset over the skyline of houses.

She turns back to jiggling the lock, and I half-smile. I remember her happy grin as she snapped away, the way the golden light washed over everything like a veil. "Yeah, me too."

We walk inside and she announces that we're home. We drop our bags on the couch and I sit on the ottoman, scratching their cat on the ears. "Oh, I brought Peter home," I hear Izzy tell her mother.

Mrs. de Bracko emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish cloth. "Hi, sweetie," she says, opening her arms. Izzy hugs her and the mother looks to me, jerking her head. "You too, Peter." I join hesitantly, always feeling awkward around parents, no matter how nice they are.

"Disgusting." We disband and turn to see Logan leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his apron. He sticks his nose up the same way Izzy does, which makes me laugh because she _hates _it when people point out their similarities, which, of course, makes me want to do it more.

"What's disgusting?" Izzy asks, launching herself at him.

Logan whips out a wooden spoon from his apron pocket and brandishes it in from of him. "Do not—DO NOT—touch me!"

Izzy collides with him anyways, ruffling his hair. "And where have you been all afternoon?"

"None of your business," he says, swatting at her in between words.

I make eye contact with Mrs. de Bracko. We've both stopped trying to break up their fights. They're too close to hurt each other, and short of actually drawing blood, they're not violent.

Logan pushes Izzy backwards, but she pulls him down and grabs the spoon. "We were in the same womb for nine months!" she yells. "Everything that's your business is my business too!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Yeah huh!"

Their mother pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers. Wrinkles line her forehead. "I give up." She looks at me. "Are they like this at school?"

"Yes ma'am." I give her a wry smile.

She sighs, her eyes bulging in frustration. "I don't understand. Mark was never like this in school, so they couldn't have learned it from him. Maybe since…" her voice trails off, and I look at my hands, embarrassed. Although it's been nearly a year since the divorce, I still don't know what to say. I'm sorry? It will all work out? Just give it time? Everything is going to be alright?

"Y'know," I say quickly, trying to compensate, "they do fight at school, but not like this." I raise my voice to make sure the twins are able to hear what I am about to say. "The roles are reversed. Logan is the bully, and Izzy is practically an angel."

"WHAT?" Logan screeches, sitting straight up. He ducks a punch, his mouth agape. "Are you kidding me? I'm the head of the cooking club! I grow succulents on the side. I'm the most angelic person I know!"

"The perfect cover." I turn to Mrs. de Bracko. "Trust me, ma'am, your daughter is the angel of this duo."

"Yeah, I'm an angel!" she yells, socking Logan in the face.

Their mom has had enough. "Stop, children, stop," she says, separating them. "That's it. If you still have issues with each other tomorrow, you can fight it out while Peter is the chaperone."

"Like he would actually do anything," Logan scoffs. He leans down and offers a hand to Izzy but jerks it away before she could grab it.

"Nah, I'm already breaking up enough fights around the city," I chuckle.

_Shit. Way to give away your secret. _

To my relief, no one noticed. Mrs. de Bracko snatched the spoon from Logan, while Izzy gave me an odd look but kept her mouth shut.

"Yeah, citizen of the year up in here," Logan says, diving in to save me. He throws his arm around my shoulder. "Helping old ladies across the street, getting cats down from trees. Very heroic."

"Didn't some lady give you a churro?" Izzy asked.

"Yeah, but I couldn't eat it," I say. _Because I was wearing my mask. _Logan elbows me, and I squeak out, "Because I'm allergic!"

_Nice one._

"Oh, I didn't know you were allergic to cinnamon, Peter," Mrs. de Bracko says, laying out place mats. "I wouldn't have made churros for dessert. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, weird," Izzy says, squinting her eyes. She stands on her tip-toes to stare at me, cocking her head. I feel like my whole soul is under interrogation. "I knew you were allergic to peppermint, but not cinnamon. No desserts, huh?"

She flicks my hand, a "talk to me later" signal, and chills run up my arm. Not my spider-sense, but something different. Something new.

"Tacos are still good thought?"

"Yeah!"

"Then let's eat."

Logan drags me to the table, practically radiating anxiety. Too many close calls, he'd say. I agree.

We start eating, and everything falls back into place. As the family chatters, I fall into my thoughts. How am I going to do patrol tonight? My paper is due in the morning, and I barely have a good introduction, even with Izzy's help. Mr. Stark said there's been some activity in a closed-down bank in Woodhaven, but it's been quiet everywhere else. Maybe I can swing there and watch for a few minutes and then head back. He'd understand, wouldn't he?

Something rubs my foot under the table. I take a peek and HOLY CRAP it's Izzy's foot!

I jerk my head up, feeling hot. She's just talking as usual, but her foot keeps tapping mine. This isn't her nervous habit; she always sits perfectly still when talking or concentrating. Is this intentional?

She catches my eye and smiles. Something inside of me snaps, and I wish I were sitting beside her instead of across from her. Maybe our hands would brush and I would know this is real. When we were jumbled up fighting over the camera, something else snapped. I felt warm, more manly, stronger. Having her in my arms made me feel better than any suit ever could.

I shake the thoughts away, gently tapping her foot in return. She glances at me and smiles again. I could live in that smile.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?" I say automatically, looking at Mrs. de Bracko while shoving half a taco in my mouth.

She laughs. "Will you help the kids clean up? I have a few phone calls to make."

"Yeah, yeah, of course."

We get up, taking our plates to the sink. We form an assembly line—Logan brings us the dishes, Izzy washes them, and I dry. She sprays me with the nozzle, but I throw the towel at her, and it's all fun and games until Logan chucks a tomato at us.

Once we finish, Izzy trots over to me, slipping her hands into mine. "Look how pruney they are," she says, wiggling her fingers.

I catch them and hold them against my dry ones. "You know, that pruning sensation is caused by—"

"Okay, Einstein, let's go." Logan grabs my shoulder and wheels me towards his room. "You're helping me beat this level tonight because if I have to face one more husk without a power-up then I'm going to break."

"Uh, guess I'm going with him, then," I chuckle, dropping Izzy's hands.

She shrugs, wiping her hands on a towel. "I'll be doing homework in the living room if you need me."

Logan slams his door shut, his eyes fiery. "Dude. She's going to find out."

"Nah. We've been careful."

"She's asking questions!" he whines, throwing his hands in the air. "I saw that wrist flick. I know what that means. She's going to find out you're Spider-Man, then what are we going to do?"

I collapse on the bean bag, holding my head in my hands. "Uncle Ben told me that with great power comes great responsibility. Sometimes I'll mess up. Sometimes people will get hurt. It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen."

Logan works his jaw and strokes his chin. With his eyes squinted in concentration, he looks even more like Izzy. "And what are you going to do if she finds out?"

"I'll protect her even more than I do now." I get up and hold my hand out to him to shake. "Hopefully she won't find out. But either way, I would never let anyone hurt her. Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is here to protect and serve."

He shakes my hand. "I know," he says. "I just get worried sometimes. She's so smart, I know she'll figure it out, and once she figures it out, she's in danger."

"We're going to be fine. You're best friends with a superhero, after all."

"Lame."

"Hey!"

"I'm just kidding." Logan fiddles with his gaming system, watching as the blue screen lights up the dark room. "Now. Use your brain and help me with this level."


	3. 3 Close Enough

_Izzy's POV_

With Logan's screams and Peter's frantic stutters of advice bleeding through the living room walls, I decide that geometry homework is just not going to happen right now. I slam my book shut and toss my pencils in the bin, knowing I can always do homework later with the boys. Maybe Peter can spend the night, and the three of us can pull a midnight study session. Or maybe Logan will fall asleep and it will be just me and Peter. Maybe we can go out on the porch for some fresh air and the moonlight will be bright enough to see. Maybe the crickets will sing for us, and maybe a hooting owl will startle him into pulling me close…

I shake my head. Let's get geometry done first.

I slip into my room, softly shutting the door. Pouring some oils into my diffuser, I roll my shoulders and inhale the lavender. It's supposed to relieve stress, apparently, but I'm not feeling relaxed. Not with finals in two weeks and the state robotics competition the week after that, plus all this Peter stuff. He's not stressing me out, but my unrequited feelings are.

Sliding down the back of my door, propping my knees against my chest, I take out my phone and dial the first number in my contacts list. She needs to know her plan isn't working.

"Hey girl, what's up?"

Aaliyah's voice makes me smile. Maybe the essential oils are kicking in. "It's about Peter."

"OMG. Sis, spill the tea."

I roll my eyes. "Well, good news is you can get all your magazines back. All those tips and tricks you gave me aren't working."

"Oh." Her voice lowers, and her attitude deflates like a balloon. "I'm sorry. I thought those advice columns were fool-proof."

"It's okay." I put my head in my hand. "Maybe he is just oblivious."

"All guys are. Especially when a gorgeous goddess like you is talking to them."

Without even meaning to, I chuckle. "You always know how to cheer me up. Thank you."

"I'm your best friend," she says. "That's my job. Besides, you'd do the same for me. Who's always the one who suggests photoshoots when I'm sad?"

"Me."

"Yes, you. Now, what do you say I swing by Friday night? Let's have a girl's night—face masks, nails, I'll steal my mom's Cosmo magazines?"

My heart lifts, and the lavender becomes more potent. "I'd love that."

"It's settled. Friday night, no boys allowed. Except Logan, he can bake us cookies."

"Deal."

Aaliyah sighs, and I can see her smile. "Okay, now tell me what happened. How did he _not _notice how beautiful you are?"

"Well, I kept tapping his foot under the table and smiling at him, like you told me to do."

"His response?"

"He tapped my foot in return? But he was acting weird at dinner, just zoning out a lot. I mean, I mentioned Bruce Banner and he didn't even move a muscle."

Aaliyah laughs. "Progress! He didn't shy away!"

"Then when we did the dishes, my hands got all pruney so I slid them into his, and he held them."

"Izzy!" Aaliyah shouts. "He held your hands! This is perfect!"

"Then he explained to me why our hands prune up when we get wet. He's the smartest person I've ever met, but he also the most oblivious."

"Our minds don't work the same way," she offers. "He has a brain in that pretty head of his, he just has to find the romantic gland."

"Please never say the words 'romantic gland' ever again."

Someone knocks on my door, and Peter's voice comes through. "Hey, Izzy, can I talk to you about something?"

I jump away from the door and lean against the far wall. "Did you hear that?" I whisper into the phone.

"Yes I heard that!" Aaliyah screeches. "Maybe he'll tell you how he feels! Go talk to him!"

"Okay!" I run my fingers through my hair, frowning. He saw me an hour ago, so I don't know what difference it will make, but it makes me feel better. "Love you, Li."

"Bye!"  
_Okay, okay. Be cool. Don't expect anything. Maybe he wants to talk about his internship. Or that he loves me. Or that he hates me. Oh God. _

"Iz?"

I take a deep breath and smooth my shirt, opening the door. Peter's leaning across the door frame, one arm above his head on the top frame, the other hand on his hip. He lets out a breath when he sees me, and I do the same, feeling everything float away in his eyes. This is ridiculous. He's just a boy, after all. Not a celebrity or superhero. Just my Peter.

Maybe that's what I love so much about him. His quiet confidence, his patience, the way he walks like he knows something will catch him if he falls. And the way his eyes roam over me, widening, as if to take in every inch. Or, maybe he has an eye twitch. Maybe I'm just over-romanticizing this whole thing. It's just Peter, after all.

He straightens and stuffs his hands in his pockets, rolling up on the balls of his feet. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I, umm." He looks up through his eyelashes, an odd little habit. "I was gonna head out and wanted to tell you bye."

My dreams of romantic moonlight shatter. "Oh. Okay."

"But I needed to ask you something first."

"Sure."

We walk side-by-side to the front door, with Peter fidgeting the whole time. Is he having a spasm attack?

He turns around to face me. Pupils darting, breath racing…is he okay?

"Izzy, I wanted to ask—"

He cuts himself off, shaking his head. I catch his elbows, looking up at him. Gently, I rub his biceps, trying to coax it out of him. He looks up at me, eyes wide, and I see his mind switch subjects.

"Would you want to…"

_Please, please ask me out on a date._

"Be my partner for the English project?"

_Close enough. _

"The one due in a week and a half?"

"Yeah."

I smile. "Yes. I'd love to be your partner."

"Oh. Good, that's great." He gives me a little grin. "We can decide the book later?"

"Text me." I reach up and hug him, curling my fingers into his hoodie. "Get home safe."

He squeezes me lightly, pulling away and opening the door. "I will. Goodnight."

Once he shuts it, I press my back to the wood and close my eyes. So I didn't get a date with Peter Parker. But project partners is close enough.


	4. 4 The Voices

_Good job, Parker, you blew it. You had the chance to ask her out and you messed it up._

I know the voice isn't real, but it screeches in my head louder than any other thought. I could never escape it, though I tried: soundproof headphones, blasting music, even dunking my head in a bucket of water. Nothing worked. If I couldn't drown myself, I needed to drown the voices. The bad thing about voices, though, is that they can't be silenced. While I plugged my nose and held my breath and listened to my heart pump blood, ice-cold in the water, I wondered if those voices could swim faster than I could. I never want to find out.

Maybe I shouldn't hate them. For what it's worth, they had saved my life many times. Taught me how to use my powers, even. Post-spider bite, when I was curled onto my bed, clutching my sheets and vomiting into a trash can because I was too weak to get to the toilet, those voices were there. They sang to me of what had happened and told me what I was, now. I nestled into their arms and relaxed as they waxed eloquent about all the prophecies, the laws of nature, what a special child I was and the responsibility I now carried. As my breathing slowed and eyes closed, I fell into an embrace of shifting sands. They repeated my abilities until they were burned into my brain. I knew what my mission was long before Tony Stark entered my home.

Swaddled in pain and surrounded by darkness, alone and vulnerable, I made friends with the voices inside my head.

At first, they were friendly. Part of my spider-sense, they told me when to jump or duck or flip just in time to avoid getting hurt. I always relied on my other spider-senses first—the lightheadedness, arm hair standing up, a tick in my neck, an itch in my stomach—just in case the voices were wrong. They never were.

When I was about to fling myself off a building to test my powers, they suggested I jump off a bench first, just to test the strength of my webs with minimal bodily damage. The left, right, left, thrust-and-pull pattern of my swinging? All choreographed by the voices, playing against my eyelids as I lay in bed, tapping the rhythm against my thigh.

The night I got bitten, when I was crying from the pain and soaked in feverish sweat, the voices wiped my face and told me about all the grand things I'd see, the power after the pain, how the world was one big shiny crown passed from one victor to another, and now was my time to wear it.

I've seen the world, and there is nothing grand or shiny about it. There are beautiful moments, like butterflies landing on flowers, the satisfaction of a perfectly done equation, and Izzy's smile. But more often I came face-to-face with the scum of the earth, staring evil in the eyes while squashing it under my palm. Watching Uncle Ben die was a stark reminder. In my nightmares, everything I held dear would disintegrate like dust and fly off. And nowadays, my nightmares seemed more like realities.

I rake my fingers through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut as I walk, trusting my spider-sense to prevent me from walking into a pole. Those tacos churn in my stomach, getting worse after I pass a dumpster. I pause, letting everything shift back to normal. When I take a step, my heart leaps into my throat, battling the voices getting louder and louder.

_What a loser. Why would Mr. Stark choose you?_

_You've been given all this power, and what do you do? Help old people across the street and rescue cats from trees when there are robbers and killers on the loose?_

_What makes you think you can be an Avenger when you can't even ask out the girl you like?_

I dig my nails into my palms, crushing my eyelids even more closed. Why me? Why can't I keep my sanity?

Cars whizz by, telling me I'm nearing the heart of Queens. Their honks battle with the voices, a shouting match with no winner, my brain the arena, with me as the lone spectator.

I careen to the left, needing to get out, somewhere quiet, clean, isolated—

_STOP_

A voice louder than the others screams at me as something like white lightning strikes the inside of my eyelids. I lurch to a stop, feeling a rush of wind an inch from my face. My heart stops as I wrench open my eyes to see a van fly by and stop less than a foot away.

Fire consumes my whole body. One more step, and that car would have hit me.

The drivers get out, but I turn away and run as fast as I can. It doesn't matter where; I trust my feet and my sense. It just saved my ass back there.

But as soon as I take a step, the voices return.

_Worthless freak._

_You should have let that car hit you, Parker. You'll do more for the people dead than you are doing right now alive. Everyone knows martyrs always get more glory than living heroes._

"No, no, no," I whisper, my chest heaving as I run. My throat closes, and I feel like I'm breathing in air through a cloth. Choking, suffocating, burning.

If I can't run, I can swing.

Making sure no one's around, I extend my right arm and flick a web into the air. It catches on a lamp post, then the next one wraps around a window sill. Over and over again, flick, twist, thrust, flick, welcoming the burn in my biceps as I pull myself up. Swinging demands all my concentration, so I can't focus on the voices. Thankfully, one helps me out.

_Left, right, left. Thrust. Pull. Extend. Remember who you are, Peter. Remember Spider-Man._


	5. 5 We Didn't Start the Fire

_Izzy's POV_

"Well, if all else fails, we can shoot down delivery drones to get ideas."

Aaliyah turned to Logan, narrowing her eyes and scrunching her nose in disgust. "No."

"Why not?" He said, popping his gum. "I never said we would take anything. We could just have a little look-see."

"Let's stay away from anything illegal!" I pipe up with a nervous laugh. Aaliyah's very conscious about the law, wanting to be an attorney and all, and right now I am scared for Logan's life if he keeps defending his thoughts.

"But it's not stealing!"

"Destruction of property," Aaliyah counters.

Logan waves his hand dismissively, propping his feet on the empty chair beside him. He folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. "Fine. That's all of my ideas. Izzy, it's all on you now."

I roll my eyes, crossing a few phrases off my bullet point list. "We're just trying to get a gift for Mother's Day, not Grand Theft Auto," I tell him. "We could do the normal thing and stop by Ross or Belk's or something."

For a moment I don't even know if my twin could give less of a crap about the holiday. Ever since the divorce, he has clung to his ideal image of our father like a saint clings to a cross. _Dad said this _and _Dad's doing that, _shifting unconscious blame onto our mother when he doesn't get what he wants. After court hearings, he'd follow on Dad's heels until he shut the door of his Lambo in his face. Logan even excused the evidence of Dad's affair in an effort to sway the judge towards joint custody. Problem was, Dad didn't want joint custody, and maybe that's what screwed Logan up the most. No, it would have been too crowded in his Manhattan sky-rise, with his 19-year-old girlfriend. His heart is too crowded, too, with all the selfishness and materialism and—

"Izzy?"

I look up at Aaliyah peering down at me, her brown eyes kind. "Hmm?"

"Need a new pen?"

I follow her gaze to the broken pen in my hands, snapped in half. Black ink splatters my fingers. With a little nod, I get up and walk to the bathroom, scrubbing my hands with soap. The fresh ink washes off easily enough, but the anger doesn't.

When I get back to the lunch table, Aaliyah is heartily munching on some fruit while Logan strokes his chin, his eyes cloudy and hazy. I settle back in my seat, sighing, and sketch another list. I didn't want to spend lunch period fighting with my brother, but I can't eat. The exploding ink ruined my appetite.

"Here's an idea," Aaliyah says, turning the paper towards herself. "Your mom loves turtles, right? Maybe find her a turtle pendant or something?"

I jot it down. "Or a tortoise-shell patterned glasses case, or a dish? She'd like that."

"Plenty of thrift stores will have it!"

"Yeah, because it's only popular with 50-year-old wine moms in crisis," Logan mutters.

"What are you doing?"

I glance up to Peter hovering over my shoulder, thankfully keeping me from strangling my twin. "Trying to brainstorm Mother's Day gifts, but someone—" I shoot a look at Logan— "is being uncooperative."

Peter slides beside me, scanning the list. His jaw works as he reads. "I think she'd like all of this stuff. What's the problem?"

"This stuff is nice, but I want to get her something that will blow her away," I explain. "There's this store that she gets all her pillows from, and you know how obsessed she is with her throw pillows." Everyone chuckles. "Especially the red beaded one, the pastel duo that Whiskers likes the lay on on the couch, the sunset orange one she won't let anyone touch?"

"That's my favorite," Aaliyah says.

"She gets them from this store in Westhaven," I continue, "but that area keeps getting robbed, so I know she'd kill me if I went there. But she loves those pillows, and I think they'd make a good gift."

Peter and Logan exchange glances, and Peter looks at me with a frown and a furrowed forehead. "Your mom's right. Don't go down there; it's too dangerous."

"Yeah, but." I fold the paper in half and slip it into my backpack. "I can't get her a candle. This year's been really rough with…everything that's happened, and she deserves it."

Everything goes quiet, and my eyes drift to Peter, who's studying his shoes. "Oh my God, I'm so insensitive," I say, touching his forearm. "If you don't have any plans, you can spend Mother's Day with us if you want. She'd love to have you. You're like another son to her."

Logan visibly jerks at this, but I ignore it. I said what I said. And I wanted it to hurt.

Peter looks at me, blushing. "No, it's fine. I'm celebrating with May. She's been my mom since I was one, basically, but I can go shopping with you, if that's okay? I haven't gotten anything yet, either." He laughs. "She deserves a castle, but I can only afford a bouquet of flowers."

We all laugh, and the tension disappears. Even Logan quits sulking and sits up enough to give his two cents on climate change when the conversation turns to that. A shadow crosses his face for an instant, but then he's fine. The image of three of us sitting on one side and him alone on the other is not lost on him, though in Peter's defense, Logan's feet were occupying the only other available chair. I don't understand him. He isolates himself from our friends and our mom, then whines when he doesn't get enough attention.

As the bell rings and we pack up our things, he grabs my arm and coaxes our friends to go on ahead.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a pain in the butt," he says. "I'm sorry."

I stop in my tracks, floored. "Are you apologizing?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes. Don't make me regret it."

Pretty sure this is the first time guilt has ever hit his soul. "No, go on. I want to revel in this feeling."

"Seriously. I might not act like it, but I want this Mother's Day to be special for Mom. We'll figure something out, promise."

"You shouldn't be apologizing to me," I say. "I mean, it feels nice to hear that, but you've been such a complete asshole to her ever since the split. Apologize to her."

"I know. I've just been trying to figure out my feelings. I needed time."

"That's very INTJ of you."

Instead of quipping about how he doesn't believe in those personality definitions, he nudges my arm, and for the first time in a while, I feel our bond strengthen. We've had nothing but rivalry between us for the past few months, fighting for attention from Mom and scuffling over the slightest ticks. At first, I would walk out of the room if he ever mentioned our dad. Occasionally, Logan would snap a chopstick if I receive praise from Mom and he didn't. Maybe snapping things in half is a de Bracko family trait. Either way, progress is progress.

As we walk, I notice him intentionally matching our steps, even lightly shoving some people to make a clear path for us. So, he's making reparations, too. Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on him recently.

"Hey, I'm sorry for picking a fight with you last night," I say, opening the door to our English class. "I pretty much punched you for no reason. I don't know why."

"You get restless when you haven't fought anything in a while," he says in a monotone voice, like he's narrating for a nature documentary.

I slip into the seat beside him, shaking my head. Maybe he's been paying closer attention than I thought. "What?"

Logan uncaps a pen with his teeth and scratches his name on his worksheet. "You pummeled me in the womb for nine months, Izzy. You literally kicked me out of the way to be born first. It's the Cain instinct."

"Cain instinct?" I cock my head. "You saw that on Tumblr, didn't you."

"Definitely. Want me to turn in your homework?"

I nod, handing him my work. What's been going on with him recently? Once more, I recline in my seat and listen to the teacher drone on about our final project.

_/_

"Yeah, Logan's been acting super sketch lately," I tell Peter as we clip along the sidewalk.

He wraps his hands around the straps of his backpack, falling into step with me. "What happened? In English you looked like you lost your voice."

"He…was nice."

Peter stops, throwing out his hand to stop me. After a minute of searching my face, he laughs. "You're serious. I thought it was something else, like he told you he was an alien or he killed Mufasa."

I look up at him, not sure why I'm squinting. Only a smidge of sun peeks through the clouds, but it isn't a dark day—like light shining through a glass, not bright, not dark, but enough to see. "He apologized to me about lunch, and how he's been acting recently. He's just been really difficult, always wanting to spend the night at Dad's but he's always too busy or has a trip or has his girlfriend over."

A beat of silence, then Peter presses his lips together, considering. "He doesn't apologize often. What's eating him?"

"Dunno. He's always been a jealous person, even before the split. Now Mom's been spending a lot more time with me because he begged so hard for Dad to get custody."

"Maybe he's finding out that scenario doesn't play out as well as it did in his head."

_Wow. _Blushing at his wisdom, I wipe my hands on my skirt and kick a stray rock. "Okay, when did you get so wise?"

"Is—is that a bad thing?"

"No! No, not at all." I tick my hair behind my ear, meeting his eyes. "I really like it when you're compassionate. You have a good heart. You _get _me."

A breeze, warm as breath, flows over us. Even the clouds part, letting sun rays wash the city. It's a moment peaceful and beautiful enough to be captured in a stained-glass window.

Peter stands a few inches away, as beautiful as spring. He takes a deep breath, then reaches out and grabs both my hands.

My soul leaves my body, and I'm suddenly glad I'm wearing a dress instead of a ratty shirt and jeans.

Rubbing my knuckles with his thumbs, practically vibrating from nerves, my best friend wets his lips and stares at me straight in the eyes. "You're a good person, Iz. You're easy to get. I mean, you can be a fireball when you want to, but that's part of what makes you so interesting and genuine." He closes his eyes as I struggle to breath. What is happening?

Wouldn't it be great if he just kissed me right here on the street?

Finally, he squeezes my hands and looks at me, and I swear he's baring his soul in his eyes. "I don't have an eloquent way to say this. Izzy, I really lik—"

He stops abruptly, stiffening, and turns around. My heart flies into my throat. _Come on! Finish your sentence!_

"Oh, come on!" he yells, grabbing me and lurching to the side just as a—

_CRASH_

I watch over his shoulder as a store building tumbles in a haze of black smoke and debris. We were far enough away to avoid getting immediately hurt, but I still have a coughing fit. What the hell was that? How did he know that was going to happen?

"Damn it," Peter whispers, clutching me to his chest. He lets go and crouches before me as I bend down, his mouth stretched open in an effort to breathe. "Izzy, are you okay?"

I nod, still gasping for a whole breath. How is he not coughing?

He straightens my shoulders, fanning the air around us. "Hey. Hey. Listen to me." My eyes sting, but I force them open long enough to settle on him. "I need you to get out of here. We're three blocks from your house. You need to run, run as fast as you can all the way there. Don't stop until you're in your room."

He gives me a slight push, but I know that look. I know that fighting stance, that rapid blinking, that determined twist of his neck. He's going to run inside the building. I turn and grab his wrist. "What are you doing!" I yell.

"Getting help. Don't worry about me! You need to get inside!"

"No!" I tug him my way. "We can call the cops from my house. Come on!"

"Do you trust me?"

What kind of question is that? "Yes!"

He gives me a small smile, lifting his arms to block the sun. "Then go!"

Something snaps. It fills my stomach with lead and my legs with adrenaline and he pushes my back and suddenly I'm running, my bag a weight that I don't even feel. If Peter said run, I'll run. Though I'm terrified for him, something tells me his dumb, selfless, sacrificial self is going to be alright.

Per his instructions, I don't stop running until I get inside my house, slamming my door shut and leaning against the kitchen sink, willing to vomit up the smoke. Nothing comes up. My side stitches, forcing tears from my eyes. As I regain my breath, weakly standing straight, I guzzle some water, gasping against the ice.

We were so close. He was literally half-way through his confessional sentence. Despite the obvious explosion that happened 100 feet from my head, at a time like this the only thing I can think of is his near-confession. We were so close. Damn it, we were so close.

Horribly shallow of me to think, but I pray he makes it out to tell me the rest.


End file.
